


There are Moments That the Words Don't Reach.

by babybluebutterfly



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misgendering, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans John Laurens, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, agender lafayette, deadnaming, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8865280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluebutterfly/pseuds/babybluebutterfly
Summary: He'd never meant for it to happen, honestly. John Laurens wouldn't wish the kind of day he was having onto anyone, let alone himself. But of course, he had to go run his fucking mouth off like an overexcited child, and ruin everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is just a little vent fic I put together, please enjoy. Do take the tags seriously, I went into a lot of detail with this one, and so if any of the things in the tags trigger you, I would recommend you don't read this.
> 
> Another thing, this is my first fic on Ao3, and so constructive criticism is welcomed!

He'd never meant for it to happen, honestly. John Laurens wouldn't wish the kind of day he was having onto anyone, let alone himself. But of course, he had to go run his fucking mouth off like an overexcited child and ruin everything.

He could have just stayed silent; he should have. When his father saw the white strap of a binder beneath his shirt, all he should have done was stay quiet, apologize or lie; it would have been over with much more easily. His father would just take it away, probably throw it out, and it would have ended with that. But no, he just let everything spill; screaming to the whole world how he really felt about his body in a surge of frantic emotion. John Laurens, whom he'd worked so hard to create, protect, and hide from those who might harm him, was finally being forced out into the open in what he could only describe as an irreversible, irreparable fuck-up.

~*~

John paused for a moment, letting the full force of what he'd done settle in. He stood, a few feet from his father, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had before. There was a moment of silence, the eye of the hurricane, as some might call it, then everything came crashing down around him. His father, fists balled and red-faced walked towards John silently, looming over him. John backed away, stopped by the wall behind him, and looked up helplessly into his father's furious eyes.

"Jane." Henry Laurens started, unnaturally calmly considering the situation.

John winced at his deadname, eyes and spirits dropping to the floor like lead.

"Go to your room take that... that  _thing_  off, and come straight back here once you're decent." He spat, stepping back from John to allow him a mercifully quick escape from the situation.

John retreated into his bedroom, tears pricking the edge of his vision. He slammed the door shut behind him and slumped to the ground, curling up in the corner. The room felt colder than it did before, and John shivered, though he wasn't quite sure whether it was the cold or fear triggering it. Everything was smaller, and John felt the smallest of all. He allowed himself a moment of weakness, letting out ugly sobs, barely muffled. He didn't care if anyone heard, things couldn't get any worse.

Tugging at his ponytail, John let his hair down, feeling it brush against his shoulders. It was too long. He hated it. He felt weak; all the fire and frustration from before doused by regret. It was as if his energy and emotion was spilling out in his tears. After a while, he rose, stripping his shirt and undoing the clips of the binder, freeing his chest. He dressed himself again, hesitating before stepping outside of his room again.

~*~

He'd almost expected his father to be just outside, waiting. In reality, he was waiting instead in the dining room. Henry Laurens stood up as John entered, snatching the binder from his hands and throwing it to the ground. He looked back up at John.

"Who gave this to you?" He asked, voice still measured and restrained.

John stared at the ground, all fire from before well and truly burnt out.

“Lafayette…” John mumbled.

He’d been questioning his gender for a while, exploring different options before finally finding an identity he was comfortable with. A few months ago, he came out to his friends, and they accepted him with enthusiasm, happy to make him feel as welcome as possible. Lafayette had been one of the biggest sources of help. Being agender themself, they’d helped John learn to deal with dysphoria, taken him clothes shopping, and in more recent efforts, even bought him a binder.

John had been careful to keep it hidden; he carved out a hole in his mattress to conceal it. He would never wear it around the house, and today was a big exception. Nothing else was working to let himself feel like ‘him’self, so he’d decided to risk it. That choice was really beginning to feel like the worst decision of his life. This sense of regret was not helped when his father scooped up the binder, grabbing a pair of scissors from the bench, and cut it in half. John could only watch as his father tore it apart and threw the rags in the bin. He turned back to John.

“Right. That French kid. Now I don’t want him-“

“Them,” John corrected him.

“Don’t correct me!” His father yelled, voice booming.

John yelped, stumbling back slightly and raising an arm, anticipating a blow that didn’t fall. He lowered it a second later, backing against a wall and hugging his arms to his chest. He wanted to cry again.

“I don’t want him influencing you any longer. You are not to talk to him again.” He continued.

John’s eyes widened, “No, dad please. Laf didn’t do anything! I asked him for it! I’m sorry!”

He grabbed at his father’s arm as he turned away, pleading Lafayette’s innocence over and over. Tears started falling again, and he hiccupped out apologies, devolving to frantic sobbing. His father pulled his arm away, swinging around again.

“Jane,” He snapped, silencing John promptly, “Just… Please shut up. I’m too angry to deal with you.” He stormed off, leaving John to despair alone.

~*~

The rest of the day couldn’t have gone worse. John’s father locked himself in his room, leaving John alone with his thoughts and self-hatred. He kicked his feet against the table, pacing and tugging at his hair as if doing so would let out some of the frustration and anger burning at his mind. John couldn’t stop crying, and his breaths came in broken rasps. At some point, one of his siblings, opened his door a crack, setting down a plate of food before making a hasty retreat.

‘Probably too scared to talk to me,’ he thought.

He ignored the food, pulling his phone out to text his friends; Alexander, Herules, and Lafayette. Guilt gnawed at his mind. He was the one that had dragged Laf into this, and now they were being blamed by his dad. He’d dragged all his friends into this, and now they would probably resent him for it. John explained the situation, and all at once, his friends started to respond.

Herc: “Hey man, are you ok?!”

Alex: “Please stay safe John.”

Laf: “John, mon ami, I am so sorry.”

The last message from Lafayette hit him hard. He quickly responded, “No, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who was stupid enough to wear it.”

Another string of messages came flooding through, filled with sympathies that John was too far gone to register. He shut off his phone, throwing it across the room. He curled up, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the world.

~*~

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like this, but when he opened his eyes again, the afternoon light was shining through the wooden blinds. John felt his stomach groan. Turning to the sandwich at his door, he gingerly picked it up and nibbled at it, unable to bring himself to eat more than a few bites. Torn between physical hunger and mentally feeling sick to the stomach, he returned the sandwich to its plate.

God, what would happen to him now? His mind buzzed with possibilities, all of them grim. What would his siblings think? They probably wouldn’t want to associate with him anymore, just like his father. He’d probably kick John out onto the streets; afraid of having John’s presence tainting his other four perfect children. That’s all he was, after all, a burden.

Suddenly everything became too much; the thoughts in his mind turned to panic until he was left hyperventilating and clutching at his chest. The world around him was too loud, and the rapid thump of his heart was audible in his ears. ‘Too much. Too much. Shut up!’ It all reached a climax. John rummaged through his desk, finding a pencil sharpener, and working to break it hysterically. Sharp pieces of plastic had already left cuts all over his hands by the time he pulled the little blade free. John pulled up his sleeve, pressing it down and drawing it roughly across his arm. Not deep enough. He repeated the action. Better. Again. John got into a rhythm, slashing at his arm over and over, letting his feelings burn out through his skin.

Fat droplets of blood began to ebb from the cuts, pooling and dripping off onto the desk. Old scars reopened from previous attempts. John didn’t care about being safe anymore. He just needed to let everything out; take it out on himself like he deserved. He deserved the pain.

He ran out of energy soon enough, his whole arm red and wet with blood. Most of the wounds still bled lightly. He sat, gasping from the pain, before numbness overtook his brain, and his tears gave way to the sweet release of apathy. He pulled a bandage out from his drawer, wiping the blood off his desk before wrapping his arm. John tightened it, ignoring the sting and tying it off at the end.

He slumped onto his bed, pulling down his sleeve and ignoring what he’d done like he always did. It was just like clockwork, and John knew that each time he did this, he wound himself down further. It could only be so long before his time ran out. Rather grimly, he thought that maybe he’d get lucky and die from this; bleed out or let it become infected. He felt tired; more tired than he had ever been before. He closed his eyes, drifting off more gently than he felt he deserved, and eventually falling into nothingness.

_‘Raise a glass to freedom…’_


End file.
